


Red Thread of Fate

by Canislupusarctos



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dreams, F/F, Hashimada Big Bang 2018, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Senju Hashirama-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 23:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canislupusarctos/pseuds/Canislupusarctos
Summary: This is not what the title makes it sound like.  This isn’t a soulmate AU, it’s just the best title I could think of.  So, if you were looking for a fluffy soulmate AU, I’m warning you this probably isn’t for you.The dawn’s rose gold light spilled over Hashirama’s face, and birds sang outside the window, waking him.  There was someone next to him, too, he could feel the warmth of a body, one through which blazing fire chakra flowed.  Opening his eyes, Hashirama could see tangled, spiky, midnight black hair, tinged just slightly blue, spilling all over the bed.  It was Madara, and the two of them being together was as familiar as the feel of Hashirama’s own chakra to him.  Since the day of the founding of Konoha, life had seemed to possess a dreamlike quality.  None of it seemed quite real, but they had fulfilled their childhood dream.  All their suffering and pain, and that of the generations before them, had meant something.I wrote this for the Hashimada Big Bang, and the prompt was “hair”.  It may have gotten a little out of hand.





	Red Thread of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> I was falling asleep at the end and have no beta or editor, so if I did anything unusually odd, please let me know!

The dawn’s rose gold light spilled over Hashirama’s face, and birds sang outside the window, waking him.  There was someone next to him, too, he could feel the warmth of a body, one through which blazing fire chakra flowed.  Opening his eyes, Hashirama could see tangled, spiky, midnight black hair, tinged just slightly blue, spilling all over the bed.  It was Madara, and the two of them being together was as familiar as the feel of Hashirama’s own chakra to him. Since the day of the founding of Konoha, life had seemed to possess a dreamlike quality.  None of it seemed quite real, but they had fulfilled their childhood dream. All their suffering and pain, and that of the generations before them, had  _ meant  _ something.

 

Smiling softly, content with life, Hashirama sat up slowly, the blankets rustling quietly with the movement.  He gently ran his fingers through the numerous knots of Madara’s unruly hair, reveling in the simple fact that they had the luxury of something so trivial.  Looking out the window, he could see the Hokage monument, his face outlined in rose, gold, and orange. Yes, he’d become the Hokage instead of Madara, but maybe it wasn’t so bad.  Madara, after all, was more traditionally a ninja: stealthy, dark, and mysterious, striking when least expected. Perhaps it was too much to ask for him to stay in the village, as conspicuous as can be.  Yes, he would do better at being the quiet strength of the village. The common people would feel much safer knowing everyone had a position that best played to their strengths.

 

Leaning down, Hashirama whispered in Madara’s ear, “Wake up, my love.”

 

Slowly, deep black eyes opened, already alert, not glazed with sleep in the slightest.  It was yet another unfortunate consequence of their upbringing, a scar of their childhood.  They would never awaken completely relaxed, too accustomed to being jolted to consciousness by the sounds of jutsu, katana, kunai, shuriken, death, and battle.  Too often, an assassin had been nearby, just waiting to take out the powerful heir of either the Senju or the Uchiha. Many days, within seconds of waking up, they would have blood on their blades, on their clothes, on their skin, on their hair, and, in Madara’s case, in his eyes.  There would be a dead body on the ground when they lost control, forgot to hold back, momentarily becoming monsters, sometimes charred, nothing but ashes, waterlogged, sliced to pieces by sharp wind chakra, ripped apart or strangled by trees, limp and floppy with no intact bones to combat gravity, or fried to a crisp.

 

Yet, despite this, they could still live the rest of their days in relative peace, and in happiness.  Those times were over, nothing but memories and habits. They may have built those who lived through them from the ground up, but the war itself was not a part of them, and they didn’t need it to survive, to have a purpose.  They’d built a new world that would build new people, different kinds of people, from their own experiences.

 

Madara sat up, shaking his wild hair out of his face, blowing at a lone stubborn strand.  His scowl was rather comical, as it wasn’t much of one. It was the only normal morning habit Madara had: slight grumpiness and tendency to assume that when he was woken up, something had happened.  Though it could have also been passed off as a war habit, Hashirama preferred not to think of it as such. “What is it? Iwagakure being an annoyance? Want me to go put them in their place again?”

 

Hashirama laughed, the sound ringing out, full of genuine joy.  “No, Madara. I think Mū and Ōnoki have seen an adequate measure of your strength, and won’t try anything.  You don’t need to go so far to protect what’s dear to you anymore, not like during the war.”

 

Gaze softening, tension leaving his body, Madara let out a breath.  “Oh. Right, the war’s over now.”

 

“We can have our hard-earned rest now that our childhood idealism has paid off, and our dreams have come true.”

 

One of Madara’s rare slight smiles graced his face.  “Not quite. We still have a village to run. You’re the Hokage, and I am the village’s protector from the shadows.”

 

Sighing dramatically, Hashirama faked a pout.  “All the paperwork I have to do…”

 

Madara, exasperated with Hashirama’s fake “depressive episodes”, concurred, “Alright, alright!  You’re right, compared to during the war, we don’t have very much to do, and even less of it is important or urgent.”

 

When Hashirama didn’t go back to normal, Madara continued, “What is with you and that pathetic sad face?!”

 

This was ordinary banter for them, and a luxury they had more than earned.  Smirking mischievously, bordering on devilishly, Hashirama snickered, “It’s funny that, after all this time, you still always assume that’s what’s really happening.”

 

“Ha!” he shouted, pouncing on Madara, tickling the other man mercilessly.

 

Madara had never been very resistant to being tickled, as it wasn’t exactly something he’d had enough experience with to build up a tolerance.  Stifling his laughter, he tried to shove Hashirama off of him. Hashirama only tickled him even more, determined to get him to laugh. A few seconds later, his efforts paid off.  Madara laughed softly, the rare sound uncharacteristically innocent and naive in nature. 

 

“Aha!  I made you laugh!  I win!” Hashirama crowed victoriously.

 

Then, noticing a streak of red, he paused.  Where could the red have come from? It wasn’t light, wasn’t glow from Madara’s eyes, and neither of them had red hair, red clothes, or red...anything, really.  Could it have been blood?

 

Taking advantage of the momentary pause, Madara wrestled Hashirama onto the ground, the two landing with a loud  _ thud _ unusual for shinobi of their caliber.  “Now who has the adva~”

 

Madara stopped midsentence, shocked.  Hashirama had a red thread of...hair wrapped around his finger.  He seemed troubled about it, as if there were something he couldn’t quite remember that would cause it to make sense.  It looked like Mito’s hair to Madara, however, which was not itself concerning in the least. Mito was their friend, and a trusted comrade.  It wasn’t impossible, or even unlikely, that a strand of her hair got stuck on their clothing or in their hair. The only thing concerning about it was Hashirama’s reaction.

 

“It’s probably just Mito’s.  We’ve found her hair stuck in ours or on our clothing before, just like she and Touka have found ours.  It’s no big deal.”

 

Hashirama forced down his troubled expression, wearing a smile once more.  After a few moments, the red hair was at the back of his mind. “...Yeah, you’re probably right.”

 

Flicking it away, he restarted the tickle war.  “Alright, we’ll see who’s stronger!”

 

“You’re not going to win so easily, Hashirama!”

 

There was a flurry of limbs and hair in the middle of the room, resulting in the blanket being pulled off the bed and thrown across the room.  But when it stopped, it was because Hashirama noticed something. Breathing was a little harder, as was moving, and something was cutting into his skin through his clothes, and tangled in his hair.  He and Madara both stopped moving upon noticing something binding them. There was more red, strands of red like the one they’d passed off as Mito’s hair. They were tangled everywhere, tying Hashirama and Madara up, as well as to one another.

 

Hashirama pulled at the strands around his neck.  “This can’t be Mito’s hair! There’s more of it now, and it seems to be tying us up consciously.”

 

_ Drip. _

 

Immediately stopping dead, he slowly turned his head towards Madara.  A drop of blood had splattered on the floor near him. “What’s going on, Madara?”

 

Shifting so his large sleeve inconspicuously covered his body, Madara responded confidently, “I don’t know.  Maybe it’s just the war’s effects on you.”

 

He received an intense stare from Hashirama.  “I don’t buy that from you, Madara. You’ve always hidden a lot.  You also know it’s better to just tell me.”

 

A violent coughing fit wracked Madara’s body.  Blood sprayed from his mouth, speckling the wooden walls with red.  The sight gave Hashirama war flashbacks. Young Madara, blue-black hair coated in his own blood from a horrendous head wound, face pale as paper, breath so shallow Hashirama couldn’t even be sure he was breathing.  Butsuma had beckoned him away. “They’re defeated, what are you doing there? Get over here.”

 

He’d wanted to heal Madara that day, at least that way, his medical ninjutsu would finally be able to save a loved one.  Instead, he’d had to walk away, unable to hold Izuna’s crimson red glare.  _ I’m sorry,  _ he’d thought,  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I want to help you, but if I try, I’ll only make things worse. _  In this way, his Mokuton was a curse.  It gave him hope that he could make things better, give life, nurture it.  Instead, wherever he went, life wilted around him, dying at his feet; the feet of a conqueror, a Senju.

 

Several other memories flashed by; of Itama, of Kawarama’s dismembered body, hardly recognizable, some of Tobirama, who’d barely survived on many occasions, of Izuna and the way he’d sealed his own fate, more of Madara, and some of whole battlefields full of dead or dying shinobi.  Was it happening again? He could hardly tell past from present. His fragile fantasy that had become reality was shattering like stained glass, revealing a mirror through which he could see the present, miles away, as though a passive observer to his own life.

 

An ocean of bright red blood, the colour of Mito’s hair and Madara’s Sharingan, roared around him, battering his mind.  It was an assault like the Sharingan’s genjutsu, irresistible and terrible. The gut-wrenching sound of vomiting so extreme one could hardly breathe snapped Hashirama out of the past, slingshotting him back into the present day.

 

Madara had both hands on the floor, retching up blood.  Now Hashirama could see the gaping wound he had covered up so efficiently with his sleeve before.  The entire floor was slick with spilled vitality, all Madara’s. Reaching out to his friend and lover, Hashirama wrapped his arms gently around Madara from behind, releasing healing chakra from his body, hoping to repair the mysterious damage to Madara’s.  He could feel Madara’s body quivering, and the undulations caused by the flexing and relaxing of the stomach and throat muscles as Madara continued to cough, spit, and expel his guts onto the floor. Surprisingly, Madara pulled away.

 

“Madara!  You need to tell me so I can help you!”

 

Face grotesque, blood dripping from his eyes, both literal and figurative, and from the other orifices, Madara pulled on the red strands of hair, strangling Hashirama and drawing him closer.  His face and body were oddly blank, not him at all. “You…”

 

“Yes, Madara?” Hashirama’s voice shook, his optimism fading as his medical ninjutsu continued to fail.

 

Standing and shaking Hashirama off, Madara spread his arms to reveal all of his wounds, big and small.  “You...killed me, Hashirama Senju!”

 

“No!  What are you talking about Madara?!  We’re right here, together.”

 

“This has got to be a dream, a nightmare, I haven’t woken up yet.” Hashirama muttered under his breath.

 

“No, you are wrong.”

 

A memory jolted Hashirama’s mind.  His katana, plunged deep into Madara’s back, obscured by his thick hair, heavy with rainwater.  “No...that’s not possible...I would never.”

 

Yet already, Hashirama began to doubt himself as small things came back, from intuition and instinct to full memories.  As this occurred, the red strands became more and more numerous, seeming to multiply. Another memory seemed to slam into his brain.  He let go of his katana, still stuck in Madara’s body. Madara fell to the ground, everything screaming wrongness, regret, and poor impulse decisions and reactions.

 

Madara laughed maniacally, hardly any part of his body not covered in red.  “You did this to me. You brought about this present you call a dystopia!”

 

_ No, no it can’t be.  This present is supposed to be a utopia!  All we went through, fought for, and suffered for had to mean something!  Surely we get to reap the fruits of our labour! This all has to be real, aside from the last few minutes.  How could it not be?  _ Hashirama’s mind raced with countless thoughts, flitting like a butterfly from flower to flower, pretending each one was a beautiful blossom filled with a sweet nectar draught, rather than a twisted, thorny abomination filled with bitter, bitter poison.  “I-I...this can’t be real!”

 

Madara looked Hashirama right in the eye.  “Oh, this is. Much more real than your fragile fantasy, in fact.  Take a good look around you.  _ Wake up,  _ dreamer.  Live in the real world instead of dancing ignorantly amongst your naïve and selfish desires.”

 

Another flash of memory struck Hashirama like lightning.  He was lying in a pool of water formed from rain in a destroyed valley.  He lay near Madara, who still had his katana through his back. Some of Madara’s soaking blue-black hair tickled his face.  But Madara was dead, leaving Hashirama the only living thing in the now-barren wasteland the had created. As always, wherever Hashirama walked, only destruction followed, life wilting before his conqueror’s feet.  Yet he could never turn that killing power on himself, somehow. His Senju blood cursed him to live a long life.

 

Madara stepped closer to Hashirama, smirking.  He pulled on the red strands, starving Hashirama for air.  But Hashirama didn’t even try to stop him. He wanted to join Madara.  “You see now? Look what you’ve done,  _ monster _ .”

 

The red strands twined around his mouth, nose, and eyes.  All he could see was red, red, red. Then it darkened, the world spun, and he could see nothing.

 

Moments later, Hashirama was on his side, fingers tangled in hair.  But it wasn’t the same hair he wanted his fingers tangled in. It was too smooth, too tangle-free, and not spiky in the least.  He had woken up, presumably. He whispered softly, “Madara.”

 

At the same time, he heard another, more feminine voice call out, “Touka.”

 

Opening his eyes, Hashirama saw red strands of hair identical to the ones in his dream.  His fingers were tangled in the red strands. Looking past them, at an angular, fierce face, he saw that the hair was indeed Mito’s, just as the Madara in his dream had said.  Now that he was awake, he remembered reality. The Madara in his dream had been right. Madara was dead, and he was in an arranged marriage with Mito. Neither of them were happy with it, and Mito’s lover Touka was also dead.  “Mito.”

 

Mito opened her eyes, staring into Hashirama’s.  She could see the emotions that lay there. “Bad dream?”

 

Hashirama confided, “Yes.  It was about Madara.”

 

Mito sighed.  “Yes. I figured, since I heard you say his name.  I had what I assume to be a similar dream about Touka.”

 

“I can’t believe I was ever so idealistic.”

 

“It would have been nice...Kyuubi.  Now is the worst time you could pick.”

 

“The Kyuubi is acting up?  I’m sorry he had to be sealed inside of you.”

 

Mito waved him off.  “No, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s nice, actually.  Even if he’s always malicious, it can be nice to have  _ someone  _ to talk to when you get lonely..”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“I’m sure.”

  
Closing his eyes again, yet unable to sleep, Hashirama thought again about war.  In his dream self’s naïveté, he had believed that, while war,  _ the  _ war, in fact, built them into who they were, it was not a part of them, and they did not need it.  But now, looking back, because they had grown up due to war, it was an inseparable part of them. In Hashirama’s eyes, he, Mito, Tobirama, Touka, Madara, Naori, Hikaku, Izuna, Itama, and Kawarama, everyone who had lived through the war, even if they died before its completion, had it in their soul.  It was, as part of what forged them, also a part  _ of  _ them.  None of them would ever be able to or have been able to adjust to a domestic life.  Fighting and war was just too deeply ingrained in their blood, hearts, souls, and minds.  They were forever broken, old, defunct souls left behind by an age they themselves had created.  How cruel the world was, turning Hashirama and Madara’s shared dream into something so gruesome. Even without opening his eyes, Hashirama could feel Mito’s empathetic gaze.  She knew how it felt, only she handled it better, because there were some things she did not know. She hadn’t killed Touka, the way Hashirama had killed Madara. She and Touka hadn’t shared a revolutionary dream that changed the world when they were children.  They hadn’t been of clans that were bitter archnemeses. They hadn’t had a forbidden childhood friendship that survived being ripped apart and put back together again after years of forced clan obligation. No, no one would understand Hashirama but Madara, and he was dead, leaving Hashirama more alone than he knew how to cope with being.


End file.
